I spend a long, restless night in the tower. All of my thoughts swirling through my head like galaxies through the universe. At long last I fall into an uneasy sleep, the dreams assault me suddenly and violently as I do so.
I dream that I am falling, through the darkness of the Void of Visions. Stars pop out at me, contorted faces forming in their mass and screaming at me from behind the bright lights. The voices yell, shout, terrorize my thoughts. Their androgynous tones fill my very existence, my every thought.
“LEAVE!”
“SHE IS DEAD”
“YOU ARE UNWORTHY”
“VALENA NEVER LOVED YOU”
“YOU ARE A MERE PAWN IN OUR GAME”
“DEATH WOULD BE MERCIFUL ON YOUR PITIFUL EXISTENCE”
Before I realize it, I am screaming too, the sounds I make are guttural and incoherent. They come from a place deep down inside me, a place of primal fear and true sadness. A place that even I didn’t know existed.
Faster and faster I fall through the void, the cosmos warping around me. At long last, I reach solid ground. Below my feet is a stone slab stretching forever in every direction. The entirety of this existence is covered by a thin sheen of blackened water ending on a horizon of unfiltered white light.
The soft fabric of my boots let in the water, and my toes begin to lose feeling as the cold liquid washes over them. I cast my gaze around hoping to focus on anything other than the blinding sky.
A being fills my vision, its gargantuan shape ever-shifting, never coming into a concrete form for more than a second. The body of this being is made from a hauntingly beautiful amalgamation of galaxies, planets, and unknowable parts of the universe. The being’s sheer size seems to become the entirety of permanence around me. I feel like a singular drop of water, floating in the infinity of the oceans themselves.
Far above me, the being opens a singular red eye, it stares down upon me, making me feel even smaller. A deep, echoing voice fills the space, I can hear the being clearly, even though there are thousands of miles of sheer nothingness between us.
“I am Azhorra-Tha, the immortal being of all knowledge. You are nothing, you exist as a mere star in my infinite universe of existence. Meddle not in the affairs of that which you do not understand. That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange eons, even death may die. We cannot be killed, Draven Lightfoot, nor can we be stopped. We control your world and can destroy it on a whim of pleasure. Be gone, and do not come back.”
The voice subsides, and though I cannot distinguish where the being stands, I shout back at it, my throat still raw.
“Your motivations are pitiful! You claim to be able to destroy the world we live in on a mere whim of pleasure, to that I say bullshit! You may control this existence, but this is a mere dream, a simple vision, a trick of your manipulation. I will not fall for your illusion, hidden in smoke and mirrors.”
The being reaches out a smokey hand toward me, nebulas swirling through its very skin. A finger, miles in length wraps itself around me, blanketing me again in the infinite darkness of the void.
When I awake, sometime in the early morning hours, I find a long burn mark, stretching diagonally across my body where the finger would’ve grasped me in my dreams.
***
I am awoken by a rough tapping on my shoulder, Drysten stands over my bed, a wild look in his eyes, “Come! Come!” He urgently whispers. “There has been a miracle during the night!”
I rub the sleep from my eyes, both my mind and body shaken from the night before. Rising from the bed, I notice the unstable state surrounding Drysten. He is barefoot, his clothes are covered by a long apron that runs down to his shins. His usually kempt blond hair is matted and streaked with a foreign crimson substance. I take all of this in and hesitantly follow him downstairs, watching his energetic frame bouncing from place to place.
We climb down to the second floor and I begin to really feel like something is wrong. I cannot see Godrick bent over, hammering away at his workbench by his bed. Nor do I hear the usual sounds of Tulip busily bustling around the kitchen below, humming her favorite songs. Both of which are common occurrences within the tower by this hour.
Reaching the first floor landing, dread washes over me like a tidal wave, swallowing me and numbing out every other sense. The kitchen is empty, the hearth cold, the table vacant, the room dark.
Drysten falls to his knees and claps his hands in what I can only assume to be prayer. His eyes are locked on something far above us. I follow his gaze, up to the window, up to the reason the room is so dark. Up to the gross, macabre tableau made from Tulip's lifeless form.
Her body is spread out like a star across the window, blocking the light from entering the room. A long, jagged cut sprawls across her body, from her collarbone to her hip. Her innards hang limply from the gaping wound. As if this wasn’t enough, her pale, graying skin is covered from head to toe in what looks to be eyeballs.
Of all the horrific things I’ve seen on this island thus far, this has to be the worst. I turn to Drysten, mouth still agape,
“You did this?”
“No. I did nothing, this is the work of the wonderful Azorra-Tha. Merciful creator and all-loving god. Tulip can, at long last, finally see.” replies Drysten from the stone floor, still bowing his head to the sinister decorations.
“Finally see? See fucking what?!” I ask incredulously.
“The Olden One. Azhorra-Tha, in her truest form. Her eyesight has been expanded upon, she can now see more than any of us.”
I stand there flabbergasted by what I’m hearing. Drysten continues to silently worship Tulip's desecrated corpse.
Out of sheer frustration at the lack of information being presented to me, I turn and storm up the stairs, needing as well to escape from the horrific scene downstairs. I gather all of my belongings and sling my bag over my shoulder, my mind set on leaving the tower for good.
With so much to process, thoughts fight to take up space in my mind. Tulip’s murder and Drysten’s subsequent worship win out and end up taking precedence, those two events in connection with my dream make me begin to wonder how much of this cult bullshit I should be taking seriously and how much of it is just fanatical. Furthermore, I wonder how much of what I’m experiencing is simply residual insanity from the plague that Tulip mentioned, supposedly responsible for the plague beasts.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Strapping Shadow and Twilight to their spot on my hip, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head back downstairs. Drysten has moved from his spot on the stairs and is now situated on his knees under the window, staring up at the corpse, as if waiting for something to happen.
I grab some basic provisions from Tulip’s cold kitchen, shoving them into my bag before shouldering my way past Drysten and emerging for what I hope will be the last time, into the ruins of The Village of Light.
My journey through the village for the third time feels oddly familiar. I notice the same things that I’ve come to expect as I walk through the decrepit houses. The flies buzz in droves, rats the size of my boots scurry to and fro, and occasionally I see the corpse of a Plague Beast, broken and rotting in the streets. It is quiet, but not peaceful, the encounter with Azhorra has me on edge, my whole body jumpy, a sensation I’m unaccustomed to feeling.
After a while, the village fades away, melting into the Fields of Desolation. That’s when the loneliness sets in, permeating everything around me, everything that’s happened, and I am the only person I can trust. Tulip’s murder has only solidified that fact in my mind. I have to get to Valena. Together, we have to get off of this forsaken shithole of an island.
Traveling, alone with my thoughts, I begin to think about my exile, more specifically, the man responsible. A name that still brings a bitter taste to my mouth every time I spit the words, Thorin Ironblood.
----------------------------------------
The Morning After The Battle of The Great Hollowed Tree
I look up at the man above me, he is short, gruff, and made almost entirely of muscle. Clasping his hand, my arm is nearly wrenched from the socket as he pulls me to my feet.
I stand there shakily for a moment, waiting for the spinning sensation to subside before focusing on Thorin.
“Who are you?” I ask again, hoping for more than just a name.
“Thorin Ironblood the third,” he responds, chipperly, “Renowned blacksmith, storyteller, and now saver of your sorry ass! Speaking of, what is your name, I’m sure you don’t want to go by ‘Sorry Ass’ for as long as I know ya.”
I chuckle weakly at his sorry attempt at humor. “Draven. Draven Lightfoot.” I rub my pounding head, “What day is it?” I ask, still attempting to regain my bearings.
“Thirty-first of October Draven my friend, in the later half of the autumn season.” He pauses, looking me over, and notices the long parallel gashes that crisscross my side, now covered in dried blood and grime from where I slept on the forest floor. “Holy hells mate, what the fuck happened to you?”
I look down at the gashes myself, and as I lay a hand on one of them the icy feeling returns and I cry out in pain and shock. The chills spreading from the wound up through my fingertips.
“You really need to get that treated, come back to my shop, I can clean you up.” Thorin chimes after watching my reaction to the pain.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth, “I have to find her.” I take a few hesitant steps towards the last place I saw her, the muddied ground soaked with the blood of many bodies now mysteriously absent. I haven’t taken more than a step or two before I collapse for the second time, falling like a sack of flour to the ground, the wind knocked clean out of me.
“Her?” Thorin questions, “She won’t much like you in your current state, so I suggest you come get cleaned up and look for her.” And before I can protest further, he slings me across his shoulder, carrying me with no apparent effort. The sudden movement pushes me back into a whirlwind of dizziness and nausea fighting for control over my body. I struggle to keep my eyes open as we begin to make our way back to the city, each step only serving to intensify the feelings warring within me. Eventually, the battle becomes too intense within me, and the cold fingers of unconsciousness wrap themselves around my limp form.
When I awake again, I am in a dimly lit wooden room. The walls are adorned with various smithing tools. Twin forging hammers, half the size of my body, hang crossed over a mantle piece decorated with ornate metal decorations, twisted into various organic shapes.
Thorin sits over me, a needle and thread in his hand. He grits his teeth as he tears through my tunic with a small knife in his free hand, exposing my wounds.
“These are fuckin’ nasty my friend, hell if I were any other man, I’d tell ya that these would’ve been lethal! But I am no other man, I may be good in a forge, but my knowledge extends well beyond the reach of my hammer. These are right magical wounds you got there, northern magic by the looks of it. Don’t worry though, I can help ya!”
Thorin lets out a booming laugh and begins to work on cleaning the wounds with a damp rag. As he does so, the coldness of the cuts slowly begins to fade. After cleaning the jagged lacerations, Thorin raises a knife from a sheath on his belt.
“Now listen, mate…” he says, a grin creeping up his face, “This part’s gonna hurt.” With a snap of his fingers, a flame appears in his hand, intensely bright, and radiating a lot of heat. “Ya might want to look away,” Thorin says, placing the knife blade into the flame and rotating the blade until it is red hot.
“Gotta get rid of the frost magic.” Thorin huffs, his knife posed over my ribcage. And these are the last words I hear before he touches the red-hot blade to my side, causing my vision to blur, and the ferocious battle between the feelings of my sickly body to renew, this time ablaze with a new ferocity. The pain screams its way up my side, clawing at my flesh, fighting the fiery pain of the knife. I scream, my whole body involuntarily jerking itself from the chair in a violent spasm. I pass out for the second time in as many hours due to the intensity of the pain, all of it overwhelming every sense, every fiber of my body.
***
Awakening again, my side feels less cold than before. Even though the room is dimly lit, I can look down and see the gashes on my side are stitched neatly shut. The blue and black flesh around the cuts is slowly receding, everything looking far less infected than before.
“Bet you aren’t feeling so great are ya mate?” Says Thorin, from a shadowy armchair in the corner.
“Better than I was,” I say, attempting to raise my body from the chair.
“Ah, but still not good enough to go after that woman you love so much.”
“Regardless, I have to try.”
“Aye, you have to try. But not before you heal.”
“Fine.” I slump back down into the chair, defeated by both my own body and sound logic on Thorin’s part.
“Plus, I could use some help before you go.” Says Thorin, his form still hidden in my peripherals.
“You want to get paid,” I say, “I understand. I will arrange for 100 gold to be delivered tomorrow afternoon.”
“Nay nay nay,” Thorin laughs, “You think I don’t know what you are?” Draven Lightfoot. You’d have to be daft, blind, or both not to realize that you belong to the Thieves Guild. Not to mention that fancy cloak of yours, a trademark of master thieves and burglars.”
My blood freezes, and the icy feeling from before returns, not due to the magic but due to the sheer panic coursing through my very veins. I am caught, broken, and bloodied, and if Thorin chooses, he can turn me in for a reward far more than 100 gold.
“What do you want then?” I say, attempting to keep my voice level, preventing the panic from creeping into my words.
“I want your help thief. You know the vault of King Tristan. The most infamous vault in the West. Guarded not only by a small army of men but also by a massive three-headed dog, appropriately named, Titan.”
I sigh. Agreeing to this job would be akin to signing my own death warrant, but my choices seem to be limited. “And you want a massive payout from the vault of the very King of the West himself?” I ask, still attempting to keep my voice level. Regardless, I still hear the hints of incredulity slide into my question.
“If I wanted a payout mister thief, I could get that myself. Nay, I want one thing from the vault of the West. The sacred jewel, the prized possession of Danor itself. I want The Celestine Diamond.”
----------------------------------------
I run my fingers over the ghosts of the scars under my tunic. The memory is still too terrible to bear. I’m getting close to the end, I know I am, but remembering the betrayal, the exile, it’s all still too fresh, like the sap of a fresh-cut tree, or fruit straight from the vine. I shake my head to get rid of the memories and continue northward.
By mid-afternoon, I have reached The Forsaken Graves, I skirt the western border, walking along the coast, watching the dark waves crash into the jagged cliffs far below. Their sheer power and size may seem scary to any other being. But to me, knowing just how small my existence is in the grand scheme, the waves scare me naught.
By early evening, I have reached the border of The Illusionary Forest. If nothing else scares me, the dark, gnarled trees, with thick branches and thorned hanging vines, scare me.